Short Fiction by Anton Chekhov (libby ebook reader .txt) 📕

God! I have taken another powder and only just dozed off when here he is again⁠ ⁠… again! I beseech you have some pity on me!”

“You can ask the stationmaster⁠ ⁠… whether I have the right to demand your ticket or not.”

“This is insufferable! Take your ticket⁠ ⁠… take it! I’ll pay for five extra if you’ll only let me die in peace! Have you never been ill yourself? Heartless people!”

“This is simply persecution!” A gentleman in military uniform grows indignant. “I can see no other explanation of this persistence.”

“Drop it⁠ ⁠…” says the stationmaster, frowning and pulling Podtyagin by the sleeve.

Podtyagin shrugs his shoulders and slowly walks after the stationmaster.

“There’s no pleasing them!” he thinks, bewildered. “It was for his sake I brought the stationmaster, that he might understand and be pacified, and he⁠ ⁠… swears!”

Another station. The train stops ten minutes. Before the second bell, while Podtyagin is standing at the refreshment bar, drinking seltzer water, two gentlemen go up to him, one in the uniform of an engineer, and the other in a military overcoat.

“Look here, ticket-collector!” the engineer begins, addressing Podtyagin. “Your behaviour to that invalid passenger has revolted all who witnessed it. My name is Puzitsky; I am an engineer, and this gentleman is a colonel. If you do not apologize to the passenger, we shall make a complaint to the traffic manager, who is a friend of ours.”

“Gentlemen! Why of course I⁠ ⁠… why of course you⁠ ⁠…” Podtyagin is panic-stricken.

“We don’t want explanations. But we warn you, if you don’t apologize, we shall see justice done to him.”

“Certainly I⁠ ⁠… I’ll apologize, of course⁠ ⁠… To be sure.⁠ ⁠…”

Half an hour later, Podtyagin having thought of an apologetic phrase which would satisfy the passenger without lowering his own dignity, walks into the carriage. “Sir,” he addresses the invalid. “Listen, sir.⁠ ⁠…”

The invalid starts and leaps up: “What?”

“I⁠ ⁠… what was it?⁠ ⁠… You mustn’t be offended.⁠ ⁠…”

“Och! Water⁠ ⁠…” gasps the invalid, clutching at his heart. “I’d just taken a third dose of morphia, dropped asleep, and⁠ ⁠… again! Good God! when will this torture cease!”

“I only⁠ ⁠… you must excuse⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh!⁠ ⁠… Put me out at the next station! I can’t stand any more.⁠ ⁠… I⁠ ⁠… I am dying.⁠ ⁠…”

“This is mean, disgusting!” cry the “public,” revolted. “Go away! You shall pay for such persecution. Get away!”

Podtyagin waves his hand in despair, sighs, and walks out of the carriage. He goes to the attendants’ compartment, sits down at the table, exhausted, and complains:

“Oh, the public! There’s no satisfying them! It’s no use working and doing one’s best! One’s driven to drinking and cursing it all.⁠ ⁠… If you do nothing⁠—they’re angry; if you begin doing your duty, they’re angry too. There’s nothing for it but drink!”

Podtyagin empties a bottle straight off and thinks no more of work, duty, and honesty!

Mari d’Elle

It was a free night. Natalya Andreyevna Bronin (her married name was Nikitin), the opera singer, is lying in her bedroom, her whole being abandoned to repose. She lies, deliciously drowsy, thinking of her little daughter who lives somewhere far away with her grandmother or aunt.⁠ ⁠… The child is more precious to her than the public, bouquets, notices in the papers, adorers⁠ ⁠… and she would be glad to think about her till morning. She is happy, at peace, and all she longs for is not to be prevented from lying undisturbed, dozing and dreaming of her little girl.

All at once the singer starts, and opens her eyes wide: there is a harsh abrupt ring in the entry. Before ten seconds have passed the bell tinkles a second time and a third time. The door is opened noisily and someone walks into the entry stamping his feet like a horse, snorting and puffing with the cold.

“Damn it all, nowhere to hang one’s coat!” the singer hears a husky bass voice. “Celebrated singer, look at that! Makes five thousand a year, and can’t get a decent hatstand!”

“My husband!” thinks the singer, frowning. “And I believe he has brought one of his friends to stay the night too.⁠ ⁠… Hateful!”

No more peace. When the loud noise of someone blowing his nose and putting off his goloshes dies away, the singer hears cautious footsteps in her bedroom.⁠ ⁠… It is her husband, mari d’elle, Denis Petrovitch Nikitin. He brings a whiff of cold air and a smell of brandy. For a long while he walks about the bedroom, breathing heavily, and, stumbling against the chairs in the dark, seems to be looking for something.⁠ ⁠…

“What do you want?” his wife moans, when she is sick of his fussing about. “You have woken me.”

“I am looking for the matches, my love. You⁠ ⁠… you are not asleep then? I have brought you a message.⁠ ⁠… Greetings from that⁠ ⁠… what’s-his-name?⁠ ⁠… redheaded fellow who is always sending you bouquets.⁠ ⁠… Zagvozdkin.⁠ ⁠… I have just been to see him.”

“What did you go to him for?”

“Oh, nothing particular.⁠ ⁠… We sat and talked and had a drink. Say what you like, Nathalie, I dislike that individual⁠—I dislike him awfully! He is a rare blockhead. He is a wealthy man, a capitalist; he has six hundred thousand, and you would never guess it. Money is no more use to him than a radish to a dog. He does not eat it himself nor give it to others. Money ought to circulate, but he keeps tight hold of it, is afraid to part with it.⁠ ⁠… What’s the good of capital lying idle? Capital lying idle is no better than grass.”

Mari d’elle gropes his way to the edge of the bed and, puffing, sits down at his wife’s feet.

“Capital lying idle is pernicious,” he goes on. “Why has business gone downhill in Russia? Because there is so much capital lying idle among us; they are afraid to invest it. It’s very different in England.⁠ ⁠… There are no such queer fish as Zagvozdkin in England, my girl.⁠ ⁠… There every farthing is in circulation.⁠ ⁠… Yes.⁠ ⁠… They don’t keep it locked up in chests there.⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, that’s all right. I am sleepy.”

“Directly.⁠ ⁠… Whatever was it I was talking